Fiction writer, poet, and playwright J. J. Steinfeld lives on Prince Edward Island, where he is patiently waiting for Godot’s arrival and a phone call from Kafka. While waiting, he has published sixteen books, including Our Hero in the Cradle of Confederation (Novel, Pottersfield Press), Disturbing Identities (Stories, Ekstasis Editions), Should the Word Hell Be Capitalized? (Stories, Gaspereau Press), Anton Chekhov Was Never in Charlottetown (Stories, Gaspereau Press), Would You Hide Me? (Stories, Gaspereau Press), An Affection for Precipices (Poetry, Serengeti Press), Misshapenness (Poetry, Ekstasis Editions), Identity Dreams and Memory Sounds (Poetry, Ekstasis Editions), and Madhouses in Heaven, Castles in Hell (Stories, Ekstasis Editions). His short stories and poems have appeared in numerous periodicals and anthologies internationally, and over forty of his one-act plays and a handful of full-length plays have been performed in Canada and the United States.

Time Travel and Praying

Tiring of time traveldespairing of prayingon a day with little wisdomyet clouds as perfectly shapedas ancient guilt and future regreta nondescript theologian pondersthe perplexing differences betweendeterministic and nondeterminstic existence and nonexistencesense and nonsensewhen a sudden vision of an airbrushed Hell disrupts the ponderingthen the nondescript theologian rushes to an intersectionstrangled with tourists and shopperscrazed supplicants and childish devoteesthe now disrupted nondescript theologiandoes an awkward yet elaborate dancein front of the gathered crowdno applause, little questioninggoes home crestfallen and stares intoa mirror, repeatedly replacedbroken too many times to countseven years times seven yearstimes seven years or more bad luckand resumes both time traveland praying simultaneously.

Pretend You Are Not Pretending

a slight noise, a quiver of light,you are stopped in the streetnothing remarkablenothing sinister you can readily definetheir uniforms are without insignias or adornment whatsoeversimply freshly laundered uniformsthe colour of old photographsyet you are frightenedfor a response is requireda measurement of your life’s worthdetails from the last year or twoof sleight of hand and artificeyou fear the evaluation but silence is an even deeper denial

to last another nightto be allowed to walk awayas if nothing had happenedas if there is no distant or near pastas if words can escort you to safetyyou concoct a life with some substancehope your breaths shimmer something memorableargue your scream has importrationalize your departure as for the bestpretend you are not pretending

I Intend to Dream Another Captivity

The two interrogators jostled for positionlike two old-time comics trying to save their careersall over who would in what orderask me questions that weremore circuitous than a perfect mazemore convoluted than an imperfect prayer.

First the one then the secondscreeched, You-better-answer-or-elseyou’ll never see your loved ones again,their threats copycat clichés.

The old-time comics become shoddy B-movie actorsmangling their lines, getting the accents wronglike winter weather in the middle of summer:Why are you here?Where are your papers?Who sent you?

I stopped listeningbe they comedians or inept actorsI had other images to contemplateanother life to inventbesides, I intend to dreamanother captivitythis one is more tediousthan even the last.